The Book of Miranda | gxg | ❖

(4) Studious Student High Achiever

I forget every year just how much I detest school. You'd think they brainwash us, to trick us into coming back each annum to subject ourselves to this rather than egging every academic building and running wild through the streets. Or maybe it's some kind of nationwide conspiracy. An organized system wherein every young person's knowledge of obscure economic theories and the composition of pi decides their fitness as a functioning member of society. I may not give a rat's ass about statistics, but I'm ninety-three percent sure knowing the date of Ganymede's discovery or the names of Greek philosophers has not made me more able to hold a job.

A hand shoots up at the front of the class.

"Yes, Exie dear," says Mrs. Hardwick, clasping her hands so sweetly, her desk almost grows flowers.

"I have a question about Crichton," says Exie. "Do you think his study as a jurist may have equipped him to make a political statement with the angering of the forest in Every Tree Shall Cry? It struck me as very allegorical, for a book meant for children."

Exie Quinnell, studious student high achiever, has been at this all morning. If she was anyone else in this school, I'd reckon she was trying to send Mrs. Hardwick off on tangents to forestall our lesson plan. Alas, it seems genuine. The more tangents she initiates, the more avid she appears. Anyone who can fake that kind of interest through a half-hour conversation on the moralizing of Faust sold their soul for that ability, and could probably stand to listen to the folktale a little more closely.

Mrs. Hardwick takes chalk to blackboard. I think she's still talking about Crichton's books, but my brain can hold a maximum of two titles and three old white guys' names at any given moment, so I've long since lost track of which topic I'm supposed to be following. The board doesn't help. Mrs. Hardwick's handwriting is blocky, letters shaped like little chunks of cheese dancing over one another every time I try to parse their meaning. She speaks like we're a room of five-year-olds, and has thus far refused to award me a single demerit. I've been trying.

I cross my arms on my desk and drop my head on them. Sleeping is something I haven't tried yet, and I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner. If it works, I'd kill three birds with one stone: miff my teacher, set myself up to fail my tests, and spare myself the mental atrophy of an impending debate on the thematic significance of decay in Jüngere Romantik. You'd think our teachers would go easy on us in the first week of class. But no. This is a prestigious institution. Mrs. Hardwick's made sure we are all aware of that.

My mere thought summons that demon. Mrs. Hardwick executes an acrobatic segue back to Melliford Academy.

"As it so happens, there is evidence to suggest this very building served as the inspiration for the Apocryphal Cathedral in T.H. Ackerley's Fallen Angel, one of the most formative and thought-provoking works to come out of southern Englemark near the end of the 18th Century. As you know, Ackerley was a notorious recluse, and this was the only building in his travel radius to depict the fall of Mastema in its stained glass."

I groan. Mrs. Hardwick does not hear, or else does not give a damn. Nor does anyone around me snicker. I lift my head again. The guy to my left darts a look in my direction, then returns it to the board with a jaw clenched so tight, a muscle jumps in his temple. You'd think Mrs. Hardwick was hovering over him with a switch in one hand and a brick of homework in the other. Graffiti boy—I should start calling him The Pyromaniac—sits to my right. He's brought a box of matches to class. But though he's lit three already and burned a tiny divot in the varnish of his desk, Mrs. Hardwick has yet to reprehend him. The bar for demerits is high. And it's only getting higher.

Exie's hand shoots up again.

"Yes, Exie dear?" croons Mrs. Hardwick. No points for guessing who her favorite student is.